Ah, November. Could it have been a lovelier day today? I spent it interviewing more candidates for the position of my assistant. I’d almost rather shoot myself in the head a la Bob Newhart in his very special “ER” “role of a lifetime” than choose between a few of these people, but I suppose that the tough decisions are why I get to be the boss.

Also, I am not going blind, as was Bob Newhart in his very special “ER” “role of a lifetime.”

Perhaps I should modify the beginning of this entry to read: “Ah, November sweeps.”

Last night, I took Rob to see Taboo on Broadway. This is a musical about the rise to fame of Boy George and the death from AIDS of his friend, fashion designer Leigh Bowery. As multiple critics have pointed out, the production is flawed (almost exclusively, in my opinion, because of its book, written by Charles Busch), but it is still the most fabulous thing ever. Of course, I am biased because I am a long-time fan of Boy George, who provided much comfort and inspiration to me during my awkward and sexually ambiguous teenaged years. He is an amazing performer, and this was the third time I was lucky enough to see him live (the first two being on the concert tour of his last solo album and with all of Culture Club on the Big Rewind Tour . . . funny that Culture Club was not mentioned by name at all in Taboo, and his romance with drummer Jon Moss was assigned to a composite character, who appropriately, though he sang well, was the most lifeless character in the show).

Another bit of excitement was that Rosie O’Donnell, who produced the play, was actually in the audience. Rob pointed her out before the show started, and after the intermission, the audience gave her a round of applause as she walked back to her seat. She took the opportunity to issue a challenge to any critics in the audience to meet her outside after the show and announced that every performance of Taboo had received a standing ovation. (To be impartial, this is not as telling as it might be. Farah Fawcett pointed out, after the implosion of the disastrous Bobbi Boland, that the audience on one of its last performances—the one I actually attended—had given her a standing ovation. But in the case of Taboo, I was happy to stand up and cheer my heart out for this amazing cast, as opposed to my mute and puzzled reaction to Bobbi B.)

Anyway, as you know, I normally do not gush about things, but I think anyone who has a chance should definitely see Taboo.

And speaking of gender-confused 1980s performers . . . not to be unkind, but my old friend Townes sent me an email last night with the subject line of “A fright.” He writes: “For whatever reason, I just looked at the Michael Jackson mugshot on The Smoking Gun and realized that the look he’s going for is Mommie Dearest, in the wire hanger scene. Seriously, it should be captioned, ‘When I told you to call me that, I wanted you to mean it.’”

As ever, Townes’s eye for Joan Crawford look-alike look-alikes is spot on. Check it out.